


If on a winter's night...

by thirtypercent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Reichenbach AU, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't know everything about Sherlock's disappearance, but he knew enough. An army doctor is an excellent resource in the battle against Moriarty's network, after all. </p><p>A Reichenbach AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If on a winter's night...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cccahill18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/gifts).



> My Holmestice fic! Thanks so much to the mods for running this excellent shindig, and [tiltedsyllogism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism) and [otter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter) for beta brilliance. <3 More details about the prompt in the end notes.

John wakes, a shock jumping through his muscles and kickstarting his heart.

His own ragged breaths fill the room, a nearly animal whine lurking somewhere underneath. Darkness presses at his eyes, and sweat clings to the back of his neck. A brief, panicked struggle, and he’s kicking the duvet away, but he’s still fully dressed.

_Where—_

_What—_

Dread jitters at the base of his spine, tugging at the backs of his feet. He has a moment, stomach in free-fall, before events of the previous day return with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. 

Oh... _god no_.

_Sherlock._

He sits up, fingers clutched in the bedsheets, swinging his feet to the floor before dizziness overwhelms him. His stomach lurches. 

His mind skitters away from the scene of the accident—

_The fall—_

_The blood—_

No. Nononono. No.

The room spins, too hot, nearly suffocating. John’s fingers scrabble at the buttons of his collar, only to freeze when shadows coalesce into movement at the edge of his vision. He blinks, and his attention jolts upward. 

A figure steps away from the window: dark curls, the alien architecture of a face made more dramatic by the dim light, long limbs folded into jeans and a hoodie.

John’s world tilts, and the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Disbelief gives way to the jagged edge of hope.

He first thought, irrelevantly, is _Sherlock wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoodie_. “Sherlock?”

The figure scowls and hunches his shoulders in an unmistakable gesture, and relief compresses John’s lungs so tightly he nearly can’t breathe. “Yes, obviously! I don’t have much time. They’re watching the flat, I’ve only bought a few minutes’ distraction.”

John stands up so fast his vision goes dark at the edges, and then he’s stumbling forward to catch Sherlock in his arms, fists clenching at the fabric at Sherlock’s back. “Oh, god, thank god. I knew it. I knew it.”

Sherlock’s posture is stiff, but his heart thunders against John’s chest, and his voice is low in John’s ear.

“John, it’s not. I can’t stay.”

John’s chest heaves, twice, and then he forces his fingers to relax in Sherlock’s hoodie, and he draws back. He fixes his gaze on Sherlock’s ear; if he looks into those eyes, right now, something inside him might crack all the way to pieces. “What’s going on?”

“The whole point of this — of all of this — they can’t know I’m alive.”

“Who?”

“Moriarty’s men. He had hitmen on you, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. I need to leave London. Chase down the rest of his men.”

“Okay. Okay, let’s go. I’m ready.”

“You— John.” Sherlock’s jaw flexes. “You can’t come.”

“The hell I can’t!”

“I need you _here_! I need someone I can trust, in London. These men are still out there. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you’re all in danger! Have you been _listening_?”

For long moments the sound of John’s ragged breaths fill the room. “You’ve got to be joking.” His voice very nearly falls apart. “You’re saying I just sit around here and _wait_?”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice turns low and urgent. “There are people here I need you to take care of. Remember the case, with the smugglers, and the code in the book?”

John’s heart pounds. “Yes.”

Sherlock turns, striding to John’s bookcase to rifle through crime thrillers and medical textbooks until he finds a slim paperback. He flips through pages, muttering. “Vintage, ‘98, Random House. Common enough.”

Sherlock thrusts the book into John’s chest. Italo Calvino, _If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller_. John’s never read it - an old girlfriend gave it to him, years ago, a memory so far removed from his current circumstances that a laugh threatens to break out of John’s chest.

Sherlock’s gaze pins him in place, and his amusement dies. “Keep this. Don’t make it obvious. I’ll get a message to you when I can.” John takes the book without breaking eye contact. Sherlock’s hands move to his shoulders, fingers digging in tight. “They can’t stay alive. And they _cannot know about me_. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really? This is _important_.”

“Yes! Yes, Sherlock, I understand, I won’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth. “It’s not just about telling! You cannot ever, _ever_ betray in your habits or your actions or your thoughts that you know I’m alive. Your flatmate is _dead_ , do you understand?”

John fists his hands in Sherlock’s sweatshirt, and meets his gaze head on. “Yes! Sherlock. You can trust me.”

Pale eyes dart over John’s face, and Sherlock’s grip loosens. “All right. All right. I need to go. They’ll be back soon.”

“When are you coming back?”

Sherlock’s brow creases, and the hesitation in his voice has John’s stomach lurching. “I don’t know.”

And then he’s moving toward the window, about to slip away as if he’d never been. Panic chokes John’s throat, and he lurches forward to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s arm, hauling him back. “Wait!”

Sherlock turns, a scowl knitting his brows together. “John, we don’t have the time for—”

And then, riding on nothing but adrenaline—

_Fear—_

_Relief—_

John fists his hand in Sherlock’s hair, hauls his head down and kisses him, desperate. Sherlock’s whole body freezes in shock, and then he’s lunging forward, pressing John backward until they stumble into the chest of drawers, the knobs digging into John’s spine, Sherlock’s fingers twisting in John’s shirt. Sherlock’s mouth is hot and open and adrenaline slams into John so hard and so fast he just needs to, to — _bite_ — and the tang of blood is in his mouth when his fingers clench in Sherlock’s hair, nails digging into his scalp.

And then Sherlock’s fingers loosen in John’s shirt, hands dropping to his sides, even as he’s panting, eyes wide and lips wet. John’s hand stretches out of its own accord.

Sherlock steps back, out of his reach. “Goodbye, John.”

And then he’s gone.

 

***

 

In the beginning, a bruise marks his back where he collided with the drawer handle. He presses his weight against it: sitting in his armchair, riding the tube, standing in the entryway of 221 evading Mrs Hudson’s eyes. The dull ache sends a wave of relief skittering to his toes. 

In the mornings, he stands with his back to the mirror, staring over his shoulder at a bloom of color first blue, then green, then sickly yellow. He looks, and the tang of blood echoes in his mouth. Does Sherlock press his tongue to marks left by John’s teeth, and remember?

By the sixth day, the pain is a memory, and the color nothing more than wishful thinking.

After two months of looking for secret messages on the blog, in the post, his breakfast cereal and the damn evening telly, for god sakes, he can’t imagine a scenario more perfectly-crafted to send him round the bend.

He imagines telling his therapist. 

_Oh, no, Sherlock? He’s not dead, simply in hiding while he takes out the last vestiges of an evil empire. He visited me in bed the night of the funeral, you see, and I’m simply waiting for coded messages informing me of enemy hitmen I should take out._

He’d be sectioned so fast his boots would be left behind.

 _Dammit_ , Sherlock.

Then one day.

 

***

 

It’s a drizzly Saturday, and without work to distract him, he sits at his laptop bouncing between a hopeless game of spider solitaire and his email program.

He sits up straighter at the sight of a new email, only to slump into his chair with a sigh when he sees it’s from Sarah. He opens it anyway.
    
    
    From: Sarah Sawyer 
    To: John Watson 
    Subject: Results
    
    Here are those results for Mr. L you asked about. Let me know if you need more.
    
    -S
    
    1 attachment: 187917a-results.xls
    

And then, as he watches, a follow-up appears:
    
    
    From: Sarah Sawyer 
    To: John Watson 
    Subject: Re: Results
    
    Sorry John! That was meant for Dr Liang. Please disregard.
    
    -S
    

John growls at his computer, ready to consign the offending email to the trash can, but his hand freezes on the mouse. 

Sarah doesn’t sign email with her initials.

His heart thuds. It’s probably nothing. He opens the attachment, and a table of numbers appears.
    
    
    Date     Before	        After
    2/8   |  64.1.3.8    |  3.1.2.5
    9/8   |  229.1.3.2   |  216.6.7.7
    13/8  |  78.2.12.10  |  232.4.8.7
    19/8  |  80.2.23.9   |  52.40.23.7354
    22/8  |  159.1.24.4  |  184.9.1.5
    

He blinks, and then unplugs his computer and slides it under his arm in one motion, crossing the room and climbing the stairs without a backward glance.

As he crosses the threshold to his room, he releases the breath he’s holding with deliberate care. He pulls a slim paperback from his bookshelf, and picks up a pad of paper and pen from his nightstand.

 _Nothing, nothing, it’s probably nothing_ , he reminds himself. He feels more than a bit ridiculous, but starts flipping through the pages of the book. _Page, paragraph, line, word._ The first row is easy enough.
    
    
    Wednesday night
    

Okay, that seems promising, but it could be a coincidence.
    
    
    hidden grave
    carry knife
    

Well. Shit.

The next row breaks the pattern: the last number is too long to match a word, and he’s left with:
    
    
    map 52.40.23.7354
    

John taps his pencil against the pad of paper. Map, map. Wait: of course. They must be coordinates. Only two words left. He decodes the last line with unsteady fingers.
    
    
    trust me
    

John sighs. As if he has another choice.

 

***

 

It’s a simple thing, in the end. 

The coordinates point to a remote bit of countryside northwest of the city, miles away from street lamps or porch lights or stray vehicles.

He crouches in the darkness, masked by low brush just a few metres from edge of a peat bog, and he waits.

A stocky man in a heavy coat is preoccupied with tugging a body toward the bog when John steps out of the shadows.

He uses a knife, and the man barely makes a sound.

John’s breath stutters in the cool night air, and he waits for the wave of guilt. He steels himself with thoughts of Mrs Hudson, who could’ve been discarded here in the dark water where she’d never be found.

But something else flashes through his mind instead: the flicker of a falling coat, windmilling arms, blood on the pavement below pale skin and dead eyes.

He nearly kicks the body on the ground before he reels himself back in.

That night, he sleeps like a baby.

 

***

 

He still dreams.

Of bloody pavement in front of St Bart’s, absurdly, and he wakes with his throat tight and hot and a yell waiting in his chest. 

But more often, of that night in his bedroom. He dreams of that mouth, and those fingers, and the hot press of Sherlock’s body against his.

And when he’s not dreaming, he’s remembering, alone in his bed at night, one hand clenched in his bedsheets and the other on his cock.

He’s spun out a hundred scenarios, imagined a thousand ways that night might have ended. The memories take on their own texture in the dark, worn into familiar grooves in places, but no less sharp. 

He turns his face into the pillow as he comes, muffling the sound of Sherlock’s name on his breath.

 

***

 

Twice more, he receives instructions, and twice more he makes clean kills. 

He follows the coordinates, and he always finds the targets with hands dripping blood, never having a kip on the sofa or strolling the aisles of a Tesco’s.

Is this Sherlock, looking out for his conscience?

 

***

 

John shuts the front door on a gust of frigid wind and holiday shoppers, stamping his feet and knocking crusts of snow off his boots. He forgot his gloves, again, and his fingers are numb hooks at the handles of his grocery bags. 

This time last year, Mrs Hudson was wheedling Christmas carols from Sherlock’s violin, and Sherlock was complying with equal parts bad grace and dramatic flourish.

John’s grown used to the silence, after a fashion, but the days are too short, now, and far too dark. 

He climbs the stairs to 221b, pushing open the door and lingering at the threshold. As usual, he surveys the empty flat, alert for any change, and as usual he’s disappointed.

His eyes jump to his laptop, and he crosses the room on a jitter of adrenaline, even as he scoffs at the accelerating beat of his heart. 

_Maybe today._

Bags containing milk, eggs, and tinned soup wait on the rug as he flips open his laptop and wakes up the screen with a jerk of his hand.

A new email from sits patiently in his inbox. A rising tide of anticipation wars with unease tickling at the back of his neck.

He opens the email.
    
    
    Dr Watson,
    
    I invite you to pay us a visit at Windrush Square. Please see attached: I trust this will provide sufficient incentive.
    
    -S Moran
    

A video. Grainy, underexposed, but unmistakable.

Sherlock.

Tied to a chair, gashes across his nose, his temple, across his knuckles. 

_Blood._

A shock of red over pale skin, his thin white t-shirt, matted in his hair. 

A wave of adrenaline hits John like a punch to the chest. His heart pounds: once, twice, three times. And then cool focus settles over his skin as his mind goes clear. He spreads his palms flat against the desk, and his jaw clenches.

He has preparations to make.

 

***

 

The next few hours pass in a flicker of inconsequential imagery.

A pale circle of light under a remote street lamp. A flash of pain in his shoulders, rough hands jerking his arms backwards. The plastic bite of zip ties at his wrists. The stale press of cotton over his mouth and nose.

The jolt in his shoulder when he’s thrown into a nearby van, the reverberation of the engine rattling through his chest as the van takes off.

The fetid smell of scratchy carpet. The rock and bump of tyres over country lanes, the lurch of brakes applied too quickly.

Abrupt silence that leaves his ears ringing. The _tick_ of the cooling engine, the rush of cold night air. The pins and needles of fingers kept too still.

He’s arrived.

 

***

 

The patdown is thorough, and unearths John’s gun straightaway. The man scoffs. “Optimistic, are we?” He hands off the gun to his partner, and reaches his hands into John’s pockets once more.

“Bloody—” the man jerks his hand from John’s coat, a dot of blood welling up on his middle finger. He extracts a tailor’s pin from John’s coat. “The hell?”

John shrugs. “New coat.”

The man’s eyebrows jump together, and then he grins. “Sorry, lad. No locks to pick, here.” He gives a sharp tug to the zipties at John’s wrists. 

John contrives to look disappointed.

 

***

 

Pale eyes go wide at the sight of John, even in a face battered nearly beyond recognition. 

“ _John_.” A single broken syllable. “You idiot.” 

A man stands next to Sherlock, fisting his hand in Sherlock’s bloody hair and tilting his head backward. The man smiles when he catches John’s gaze. “Welcome, doctor. Thanks for joining us. Sherlock, here, hasn’t been as forthcoming with some information as we’d like, so we thought he could use the encouragement of a friend.”

He gestures, grandly, to the array of bloody medical equipment laid out on the table before him. 

John waits.

When the first of the hired thugs crashes to the floor, John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s, and he nods.

John steps back, and then headbutts the man next to him hard enough he hears bones crunch. In the ensuing spray of blood and howl of dismay, he lands a vicious kick to the man’s knee. The man drops to the floor like a felled tree, clutching at his dislocated knee.

The man goes silent when John lands one more kick to his head. Hands still bound, John can’t take any chances.

John spins at the report of a gun, two shots, deafening in the enclosed space.

Sherlock stands over the leader, chest heaving. For a few moments, the only sound is the patter of blood trailing down Sherlock’s arm and over his gun and onto the concrete floor.

Then Sherlock’s arm drops to his side, and his smile is brilliant. 

 

***

 

Sherlock lurches forward, his right leg nearly giving out under him, and John slips an arm around his waist, skin warm and slick with blood.

Sherlock pants, leaning into John. “Good job he stuck himself on that pin.”

“Well. Yes, and I’ve got about eight more on me.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “Good job you didn’t stick yourself, then.”

“True.” And then laughter is bubbling up, euphoria tripping over itself on the way out of his lungs. “You look like shite, by the way.”

Sherlock blinks at him with unfocused eyes. “You don’t.” 

John swallows. His fingers twitch as he prevents himself from crushing Sherlock against him. He would, if he didn’t think he’d end up dosing them both with ketamine. “What do you know? You’ve got a concussion — I can tell your eyes aren’t focusing from here.”

They reach the front door and press out into the night sky.

 

***

 

And then it’s a night in hospital, for Sherlock.

Twenty-seven stitches, two cracked ribs, one sprained ankle, and a moderate concussion. He’s kept overnight, largely for observation, much to his vocal dismay.

“I gave myself stitches in a hostel bathroom in Krakow! I don’t need a _minder_ — let alone an entire wing of them.”

John can’t stop grinning, and judging by the expressions on the faces of the nurses come to check on them, the look pairs alarmingly with his blood-covered shirt. “Tomorrow.”

He steps into the hall to make a phone call, and his fingers shake as they grip plastic.

“Mrs Hudson — it’s John.” He takes a deep breath. “Sherlock — he’s back.”

 

***

 

Adrenaline has him going strong until well into the next morning, but by time they leave the hospital, the first thread of apprehension coils in John’s gut. In his head, it’d been simple. 

But now, the memory of Sherlock’s body pressed against his in the darkness of his bedroom is less tangible than the sight of Sherlock’s lifeless body, bleeding out on the pavement. Facing hardened killers was simpler than this. 

In the cab, Sherlock is silent, staring into his hands in his lap with an intensity typically reserved for unsolved murders.

Finally they reach Baker Street, and John holds open the cab door, lamely. “Welcome home,” he says, with a cringe.

Sherlock’s brow furrows but he doesn’t answer, entering the doorway and scaling the stairs with care. John’s hand hovers over his back, fingers twitching with uncertainty.

When they reach the doorway to 221b, Sherlock stops and turns abruptly enough that John nearly collides with him, and his hands reach out to John’s shoulders to steady him. “John, I… what you did, that was — well.” He clears his throat. “Thank you.”

John nearly doesn’t register the words, focused as he is on the points of contact between them: Sherlock’s palms on his shoulders, the edges of his coat brushing John’s knees. 

John’s brain stutters to life and he absorbs Sherlock’s words. A jolt of something nearly painful in its intensity has John raising his hands to grasp Sherlock’s forearms, squeezing as hard as he dares, but it’s not nearly enough. 

He meets Sherlock’s gaze. “Any time.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, and his mouth grows soft. “John, I—” His jaw works as he swallows, and then he’s tipping forward, one hand slipping up into John’s hair, and his mouth is warm, the press of his lips very nearly hesitant, his hand not quite steady.

Their foreheads tip together, and Sherlock’s lips brush over the corner of John’s mouth. John’s hands drop to Sherlock’s waist and he leans in for more, the twitch of Sherlock’s body against his nearly as gratifying as the low sound in his chest, when John tilts his head and presses in, deep.

The moment is broken when a high-pitched squeak of joy emanates from somewhere in the kitchen. John starts, and has a moment of satisfaction when Sherlock jumps just as badly.

Mrs Hudson stands in their flat, hands clasped under her chin, eyes glassy. “Oh, how _romantic_.”

John sure he hasn’t flushed this deeply since secondary school. He takes a step back, but his fingers won’t release their grip on Sherlock’s coat.

Mrs Hudson starts forward. “Oh, you two. Under the mistletoe and everything.”

Belatedly, John spots the fairy lights, the tinsel, the tray of Christmas biscuits on the kitchen table. He counts backwards, and realises: _Christmas Eve_.

She reaches Sherlock, clasping her hands on the side of his jaw to turn his head this way and that. “Oh, your poor face.”

Sherlock blinks, and puts his hands over her wrists. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“Of course it is! Scars add character, that’s what I always say.” She tugs him down into a hug, patting his back with both hands. “John told me all about it.” She sniffles, and John’s throat grows alarmingly tight.

She pulls back to thwack him on the arm, thankfully not on any of his stitches. “ _That’s_ for making me go to your funeral.” She wipes at her eyes. “What if I’d never found out you weren’t dead! I can’t imagine.”

John clears his throat. “Mrs Hudson, did you do all this?” He gestures vaguely at Christmas come to Baker Street, and she waves her hand in dismissal.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just thought we could all use a bit of holiday cheer.” She turns back toward the kitchen. “Anyone fancy a cuppa?”

John loosens his grip on Sherlock’s coat with some effort, letting fabric trail through his fingers until his hand falls at his side. He brushes his thumb across Sherlock’s palm, and Sherlock’s full-body shiver is unmistakable. John grins. “That sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely [cccahill18](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18), who expressed interest in BAMF!John, torture/violence, hurt/comfort, a happy ending, and Sherlock returning at Christmas. Also magical realism, but I couldn't quite figure out how to work it in. I'm glad you still liked it all right! <3
> 
> I was also influenced by [this brilliant Little Favour/Sherlock gifset](http://thirtypercent.tumblr.com/post/65265613886/selinabln-youve-got-mail-dr-watson) (Warnings for a bloody Benedict Cumberbatch and mild Little Favour spoilers).
> 
> Also: because I'm a huge nerd, that table of numbers does indeed correspond to those words in _If On a Winter's Night a Traveler_. You do not want to know how long that took. (Though I actually used the '81 American version by Harcourt Brace, because that's what I own, but I figured it's not too likely John would.)


End file.
